


Ritual

by valkyrienix



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 05:44:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2257992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valkyrienix/pseuds/valkyrienix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You both end up in his bed, not fully undressed, but certainly on your way there.  You lay next to each other, each on your sides to see the other’s face.  Your fingers find their way along his arms, featherlight, and gently run your hands over the needle scars. You wonder if he’d had tracks of any kind in life.  He lets you touch them, doesn’t comment.  Neither of you really speak.  It’s a ritual and both of you are determined to not mess it up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ritual

You have to wear the cover-up to work. You don’t want to, have no desire to touch the oily substance ever again, but you need the money if you want to pursue your future. There had been a point that you’d come to the realization (or rather, you’d finally addressed the nagging voice in the back of your head) that you couldn’t live off your parents forever, as much as they seemed willing to let you do just that.

So you wear it. You get a job with one of the few people in Roarton who’s pretty alright with people like you, and you do odd jobs around his shop. The owner has one condition about you working for him though: you wear the make-up while you’re there. You comply, albeit reluctantly, and earn a nice paycheck once every two weeks that you put in a bank account and touch not a pound of it.

In the beginning, you’d gone straight home from work and cleaned the make-up off yourself. On some occasions, you’d left it on, but that was more for your parents than it was for yourself. It would be a lie to say you were completely happy with who you were, but you’d come to be comfortable with what you looked like under the coat of tanned peach paint.

It is, without little surprise, that Simon is less than pleased to find out you wear the cover-up during the day. He tells you it might as well be the Give Back Scheme. You tell him that’s a load of shit, and you’re making money this time. You’re making money before the Give Back Scheme comes back to Roarton and you’re forced to work for free again. You’ve got security.

He wordlessly begins to wipe your cover-up off after that, picking up a towel from the sink and dragging it along your cheek in quick, jerky movements. You watch him without a word, stopping him with a touch of your hand only to remove your contacts. His rough hand movements soften though, and soon he’s practically caressing your face with a kitchen towel. 

It makes you laugh a little, a smile touching your lips briefly. He raises a brow questioningly, and you flick your gaze downward, moving your head to look just right of him, laughing still. His thumb comes under your chin and tilts your head back to face him. You meet his eyes just in time for him to lean in and kiss you. You can’t really feel it, neither of you can, save for the slightest of tingles. The feeling is only there when you kiss, and that feeling is enough motivation for the both of you to kiss multiple times.

That’s as far as it always gets, though. Kissing. You’re content with it like that, never feeling any desire to take it any further. There was no point, not with the way your body worked now, but you like being able to physically express your emotions, at least in that one way.

You come back to his house the next day after work, and he cleans the cover-up off of you again, and you end up kissing and touching each other’s faces like the day before. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that ever mattered, and while that intimidates you, it also makes your heart, for lack of a better term, soar. He moves his fingers across your face, along your neck, like you’re a map, one that he’s seen time and time again, but it still remains a mystery, something to be continually explored, because there is always a treasure to be found.

You both end up in his bed, not fully undressed, but certainly on your way there. You lay next to each other, each on your sides to see the other’s face. Your fingers find their way along his arms, featherlight, and gently run your hands over the needle scars. You wonder if he’d had tracks of any kind in life. He lets you touch them, doesn’t comment. Neither of you really speak. It’s a ritual and both of you are determined to not mess it up.

He lets you touch his back, too, though his face looks uncomfortable, pained. You kiss his shoulder and you curl up against him, pressing your lips onto his skin with petalsoft care. He relaxes, moves his hands down your back, rubs his thumb along your skin.

It’s not a particularly sexual moment, but it’s an intimate one. Words aren’t needed, the both of you coming to know each other silently. You’re still not sure you love him as much as he loves you, but you care about him. There’s that feeling in the bottom of your heart, the centre of your chest, that aches. It’s not that particular bad type of ache, like the one that you’ve felt since you’d come across Rick on your driveway, or the one that had nestled itself into you when you’d been forced to let go of Amy’s lifeless hand. This ache might even be attributed to that feeling felt after having sex, where you’re sore and a bit wobbly on your feet at times. It’s not quite that either, but that’s as close a comparison as any. It’s a good feeling, and you’re going to keep it, nurture it, until you can look at Simon the way Simon looks at you.

It becomes a ritual. You go to Simon after work, and he slowly, lovingly, takes off your make-up for you. What you do afterwards is interchangeable. There are times where he’ll settle down and read a book, sometimes prose sometimes poetry, and you’ll take out the sketchbook you have stowed here, and etch out his figure. If he’s reading poetry, he’ll read some aloud to you, especially the ones he likes. There’s one you like in particular, though he says the poem’s a bit overused. His eyes, fervently fixed on you, make sure you don’t break eye contact with him as he utters the final lines:

_Such wilt thou be to me, who must,_  
 _Like th' other foot, obliquely run;_  
 _Thy firmness makes my circle just,_  
 _And makes me end where I begun._

At other points the two of you sit and talk, sitting on the couch in the front room together, shoulders barely touching. The conversation topics vary, from the Roarton villagers and their intolerance, to your fifth birthday, when you’d accidentally smeared cake frosting all over baby Jem. You like these days best.

Sometimes, the two of you touch each other like you had that night, but never quite with the same impassioned air. You’re settling into being with him, finding yourself more comfortable as you begin to learn his quirks, his tics, the things he hates and the things he likes. There is still that same passion behind your actions, but it’s relaxed, comfortable in knowing that what you’ve got in your hands isn’t going to leave you anytime soon. Neither of you are going anywhere.

**Author's Note:**

> the poem is one of my favorites  
> A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning by John Donne  
> read the entire thing for more context


End file.
